For The Hoard
by Mr. Skurleton
Summary: For what is a dragon without her stuff? Just a silly bit of nonsense. Enjoy.


**A/n:** I'm apparently in a silly mood and I'm not even sorry.

* * *

Clara pulled the mask from over her nose and smiled a soft, quiet smile as the world's problems melted from her shoulders. So what if she'd been chased by twelve ugly bandits, eleven skooma dealers, ten thalmor agents, nine summoned daedra, eight spriggan matrons, seven angry giants, six mangy skeevers, five cave bears, four sabre cats, three vampires, two elder dragons and a courier from every hold? She was home, and that meant warm feet, a full belly and a bit of peace.

Before her stood a quaint house, all hers and conveniently close to Whiterun's gate. Her keyring looked more like a thousand-spoked wheel with little room for the keys to jangle when she removed it from her pack but after a few minutes she found the right one and inserted it into the lock, gave a twist and walked inside.

Or rather she had planned to walk inside. What she actually did was walk forehead first into the door which didn't even budge as she collided with it.

"What in the name of the nine…" she spat in question whilst rubbing the emerging knot on her noggin. Glowering at the offending piece of architecture she pushed again and gained nothing but a sidelong glance from Adrianne. She tried putting her shoulder in it and still nothing, not even a creak. It was then that an inkling of a suspicion came to her mind.

"LYDIA!" Clara's shout caused most of the people near the gate to jump… except the guards and the blacksmith, living in such close proximity to breezehome meant they were… accustomed to unusual sights and sounds. "Lydia open the door! You had better not be standing in front of it again!"

Clara waited for a response from her faithful housecarl, her ear pressed to the door only to be greeted by a distant and muffled sobbing. Fearing for the life of her housecarl Clara wasted no time in unsheathing her blade. Its edge was honed to perfection, its surface shimmed with enchantment and Clara knew her door's hinges would be no match for it as she set to work on them.

It took but moments, iron fastenings snapping like branches beneath a lumberman's axe, and when it was finished Clara pulled hard on the handle of the door, bracing her feet on either side of it to aid in her effort. It came free with a creak and a crash, leaving the dragonborn to scurry quickly out of its way. Then again it was not the door she really had to worry about escaping.

From the hole she had just made in the front of her home came pouring a great wave, not of water nor of snow but rather of stuff… lots and lots of stuff. Armor tumbled alongside pots and baskets rushed ahead of books. Bottles and bones that had formed the swell tinked and clattered forward looking for an unsuspecting victim to smother. On top of it all was Clara's housecarl, legs and arms flailing in a tangle of furs, weapons and dried flowers.

When the dust had began to settle and the guard had smacked away a half dozen or so hands belonging to the gathered crowd, Clara unburied herself and took stock of the damage. It looked oddly like her house had thrown up in the middle of the street, a great mountain of possessions glinting from beneath a cover of dust. The dragonborn stood without a word, she gave the crowd nary so much as a glance as she walked slowly to where Lydia's still kicking legs could be seen.

Once righted, the ever faithful Lydia raised a hand in comfort to her employer's hunched shoulder as the latter began to dig through her fallen possessions.

"There was nothing I could do my Thane, it was just too big, too much in too small a place." The housecarl inclined her head sagely but Clara said nothing, tight lipped and still moving things about. "Come my Thane, let me buy you a drink. It'll make you feel better."

"Oh we are not going anywhere yet," Clara said with all the fervor of the devout, she had straightened by this time and in her hand were two objects, a broom and a shovel.

Lydia took one look at her thane's face and wondered if perhaps there were not seventeen daedric princes instead of sixteen. For surely no mortal could be so insane and cruel.

"You can't be serious, why do you even need all this junk anyway?"

Clara handed her the broom with utter reverence as she solemnly said, "Some may call this junk, but I call it treasure."

* * *

Six weeks after what the townsfolk had taken to calling 'the breezehome incident', Clara and Lydia sat atop the former's bed with their knees drawn to their chests. It wasn't comfortable but it was the only way to sit without some blade or spiked gauntlet stabbing into them. From their perch inches from the ceiling, the various mountains and jungles of stuff could almost be seen over… almost.

"My thane…"

"Yes Lydia?"

"I think we're going to need a bigger house."


End file.
